


The Other One

by orphan_account



Series: "The Other One" Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Friendship, Grief, Introverted Sherlock, John's sexuality is not a subject, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Moving On, Numbness, Romance, Sherlock is a bit of an insightful twit, Sherlock is a damn good cook, memorial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4291275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being vague is an easy way to get out of lying. For years they'd managed to get out of speaking the truth with phrases that flew under the radar. Then Mycroft spits out the truth to get John to shame him - and it works. When the truth comes out, however, it leaves John wondering who Sherlock is, other than a brilliant man with primary school knowledge of emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hindsight is 20-20

It wasn’t unexpected that he went quiet some days; it had been one of the first things he mentioned about himself. Free of charge, without need to question or observe it. John was grateful of how forthcoming and honest he had been about his flaws. That is, the things he did actually recognise as _flaws_. There had been no warning about his ability to relinquish all essence of caring or how utterly thoughtless, rude, and _dickish_ he could be at points. Or his unruly habit of storing body parts in the fridge. But he had since gotten used to the idea.

That didn’t mean it was instantly forgiven, but now it was just expected.

It was a cold day in August when he fell silent in a way that seemed somehow significant at the time. Sherlock sat in the floor in front of the fireplace with his skull on his knee, cradled with one slender-fingered hand to keep it from falling from its perch. He seldom looked at the skull, but when he did it was never for more than a few minutes. The expression on his face was contemplative and unhindered.

John watched him do this for hours from behind his laptop, newspaper, and tea. When he was done with one he switched to the other. Finally he had enough and couldn’t stand to let the silence continue lurking. “What are you doing, Sherlock?” he asked.

“I’m thinking,” came the reply. It was low and rumbled, his voice croaking from disuse.

“I can see that.” John paused to rephrase. “I meant in general. What are you thinking about?”

Sherlock didn’t reply for a while. Usually he answered without hesitation. He probably forgot that John had asked another question. After about five minutes he said “Nothing in particular. Too many things I could mention, my mouth works so much slower than my mind.”

“Such a burden.”

“Yes.” He knew the comment was uttered in sarcasm, but it didn’t stop him from confirming it. Sherlock looked back at his skull and ran his thumb over the smooth jaw, the edges of the teeth. They were smooth but unpleasant to touch. Teeth weren’t meant to be dry.

John sighed and set his laptop on the end table, now bent over with his elbows on his knees. “You’re staring at a human skull.”

“You say that like I’m unaware,” Sherlock said, looking over his shoulder to throw one of his classic “you’re an idiot” looks at him. He resumed his normal position and gazed at the fire.

“No, I figured you knew, I’m just trying to figure out why.”

“Then ask why.”

He groaned and rubbed his face. “Why are you staring at that skull, Sherlock? If you were normal, I’d be freaking the hell out.”

“Fortunate for the both of us that I’m not normal, then,” he quipped. “You’re insufferable when you’re hysterical.”

“Are you going to answer the question, Sherlock?”

“I’m looking at it because it’s interesting, nothing more. You don’t have to turn everything into an excuse to psychoanalyse me.”

“I don’t-”

“Not interested.”

He stared at his flatmate’s back as he pursed his lips. John didn’t know whether to scold him for interrupting and being a prick – no matter how subtle this was in comparison to other occasions – or to just get up and leave the room. After a moment of irked contemplation, he just sat back and smoothed his hands over the arms of his chair.

The silence resumed for about fifteen minutes before Sherlock got up and set the skull back on the mantle. He gave it an amused pat before he sighed and moved over to the couch. He plopped onto it in his classic ball of sulk, curling in on himself and facing the back of the sofa.

The unexplained was usually what itched at him. It was a solid fact that Sherlock was never delicate unless he realised he did something wrong (which happened as often as the Earth revolved around the sun), and John somewhat made his peace with it. The thing that really pissed him off was not knowing. The lack of knowledge about Sherlock hit him roughly sometimes – and the feeling of being cheated always followed. Sherlock knew everything about him, either by just being around him or by reciting it like it was written on his forehead. And yet John knew nothing about Sherlock. The only things that he knew were gained by standing next to him.

“Who did the skull belong to?” John asked, his voice soft.

Sherlock whipped back to look at him. His limbs and body seemed to clamber around in turning, like some afterthought. “A friend.”

“A friend?”

“Well...” He trailed off and pushed his lips in a firm line as he thought to clarify. Of course, friend wasn’t accurate. He could count his friends on one hand and still have some fingers left over. “Someone I used to know, in any case.”

John scoffed.

“What?”

“You’re being terribly vague for as much of a perfectionist as you are. Always fitting things into categories.” He crossed his leg over his knee and sighed. “Who were they to you?”

“You tell me.”

John raised his brow, looking confused. “I’m sorry, what? How the hell am I supposed to know?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up, perching on his feet as he hugged his knees, resting his head between them. It almost seemed out of character for him, but Sherlock was always contorting his body into these weird positions; he treated furniture like they had no designated use. On more than one occasion John found him lying on the coffee table. In fact, you could just say that if Sherlock was doing something odd and no one would be surprised. “You know what I do, and you’ve been around long enough to pick up some of my skills. Show me.”

He sighed again and rubbed his forehead. This wasn’t the first time Sherlock invited him to deduce, and it always ended in him feeling like an idiot. He wanted to decline, but that was almost worse than just not being as smart as Sherlock. He’d be a coward for not even bothering to try. “Fine, but you don’t get to mock me,” he said in resignation as he got out of his armchair. John moved over to the mantle and picked up the skull with some delicacy out of respect for whoever’s brain it used to contain.

John rolled the skull in his hands slowly, inspecting every nick and scratch. Despite the wear and tear of being one of Sherlock’s possessions, it was in good condition. Oh, God, did he just think that? _Possession_ and _condition,_ like it was a DVD or some other impersonal object. He shied away from the self-criticism and launched right into his examination of it. “You’ve taken care of it, which means you hold it in some regard – never mind the fact that it’s a _skull,_ and that it belongs in the ground along with all of the other bones of the person this belonged to _._ Considering the nature of human bones and the general bloody weirdness of possessing one, I’d say it was someone of some significance. The level of care and the lack of yellowing just says it was a person you didn’t hate.” He walked over and held it out in front of Sherlock. “How did I do?”

“Relatively well. You’re learning.” He took the skull from him and scrunched his nose. “Bleached on occasion to stop the yellowing, I think you got that far. You didn’t tell me who they were, though.”

John huffed and shrugged. “How am I supposed to know?”

“You’re a medical man of above average calibre. You should at least be able to tell me the age and gender of the person.” Sherlock held it out again. “Don’t just sum it up, tell me everything you know.”

John didn’t get a chance to continue his deductions, to his relief. Mycroft, with all of his domineering smugness and propriety, tapped the doorframe to the living room with the metal end of his umbrella. The two men looked at him: Sherlock with annoyance, John with gratitude. He was wearing the three piece suit that was typical to him, with his coat folded over his arm. It all helped to match the disappointment and disgust on his face at the sight of Sherlock thrusting out the skull to John as if it were a toy.

“Good evening, John, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, stepping into the room. His eyes broke from their lock on the skull and flicked to gaze at John. “You’re well, I trust?”

John furrowed his brow and nodded, looking between the brothers. Sherlock’s outstretched arm moved and he set the skull on his chest, facing himself. He ignored Mycroft’s attempt at small talk and gazed into the eye sockets of the skull.

Mycroft poked his tongue at his cheek. He seemed to be choosing the right words to confront his little brother about the subject at hand. “You haven’t answered my calls. I was worried.” The thought of Mycroft being concerned tempted John to laugh, but he remained silent out of respect.

“You know I loathe talking over the phone, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied in his bored tone, glancing up at his brother for a brief moment. “I would sooner have John answer all of my calls.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” John interjected before he could go any further. “It’s bad enough that I took your phone out of your jacket while you were wearing it.”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock with displeased weariness. “You haven’t answered my texts either.”

“My phone is on silent. You should have considered that I didn’t want to talk to you. I still don’t.”

“I will tolerate your deliberate disremembering of holidays and general inattentiveness to anything that has to do with socialising on a regular basis, but today you have no excuse.” Mycroft’s nostrils flared and he used his umbrella to jab at the edge of the sofa to illustrate his point. “You will get up, bathe, groom, and get dressed, and then you will come with me. Do not mistake that you have a choice.”

John’s eyes widened and he glared at Sherlock. He had no idea what he’d done to incite such firm annoyance in Mycroft, but he had no doubt that it was deserved. “What’s today?” he asked, and left it up to them to decide who answered.

“Nothing significant,” Sherlock started to say, and it sounded like he was going to elaborate, but Mycroft cut him off.

“It’s the anniversary of the death of our younger brother and Sherlock is, as always, kicking and screaming along the way because the memorial _inconveniences_ him,” Mycroft sneered.

John opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. He didn’t know where to start. His mind decided to focus on this new mention of a third Holmes sibling, even if he was dead. How hadn’t he known? It seemed like that was something pretty important to someone, and though people were always reluctant to mention their lost loved ones, they were prone to opening up with people that they had established trust in. He decided not to go down the tangent route, _Sherlock doesn’t trust me,_ and moved to the clues that he must have missed. It was true that Sherlock had left the flat on this day in every year that he’d known him, but it was no news that he would leave for hours at a time to take solitary walks. John felt like an idiot for not noticing the pattern, but at the same time he had to allow himself leeway for how innocent his absences seemed at the time.

His eyes fell on the skull on Sherlock’s chest and he nearly choked. “No,” he said, feeling sick to his stomach. “Don’t tell me...” He trailed off. “Did you just get me to touch your brother’s skull? Is that...that what’s happened here?” John laughed and slumped to sit on the coffee table, his legs giving way beneath him. “That’s disgusting.”

“You didn’t seem to mind when you hadn’t yet realise-“

_“Why is your brother’s skull on our mantle, Sherlock?”_

“Well, where else was I supposed to put it?” he asked, shooting a glare at Mycroft. He made the point to be vague to avoid this talk, and yet he’d undone all of that work within one short rant.

“In his _grave,_ where it belongs!” John snapped, gripping the edge of the coffee table. His queasiness was replaced with fury. How could the man be so remarkably daft? “I don’t believe this. No, Sherlock, you’re going. I don’t care what reasons you have all prepared to list off. For God’s sake...”

He never expected to be adamant about supporting any of Mycroft’s ideas, but it didn’t make him hesitate. Sherlock was unbelievable. His own brother... John couldn’t help but think about the situation if things were switched. If it were Harry who died, he wouldn’t hesitate to show up in respect for her memory – and that was even when he took in consideration the particularly nasty things they said to each other sometimes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at them both and set the skull on the end table as he shot up off the sofa, stomping gracelessly to his room. Whether it was to get away or to obey Mycroft’s demands, it was unclear.

“I’m not sure it was wise of you to involve yourself,” Mycroft remarked as he moved to sit on the sofa. His movements were delicate and precise, and John had a hard time picturing the man being so ungraceful as to “flop” on any surface, as Sherlock did so often.

John let out a sigh as he heard Sherlock’s shower spray to life in the other room. “I know,” he muttered, rubbing his face in exasperation. “Shit. He’s not going to let this go, is he?”

“No.”

“I knew that.” He looked up towards the mantle. All of these years and Sherlock had been hiding something like that right in front of his face. He wasn’t sure if he was angrier over him being so appalling in the face of his brother’s death or the fact that he’d managed to keep this from him. “How come I didn’t know? I mean-”

Mycroft smiled ruefully. “You ignored the evidence because you didn’t want to know. This isn’t the first clue.”

He cocked his head and looked at him in confusion. John tried to recall a moment that did hint at this fact, and was at a loss for a while. Then he remembered Mycroft’s remark about “the other one” on a single occasion. “And this was supposed to be enough for me to know?” he asked incredulously, though he knew that it was. It only succeeded in making himself feel more like a fool.

“You don’t need my confirmation to know that it was,” Mycroft said, and it looked as though he pitied the poor doctor. “As my dear brother has said on occasion-“

“’You see, but do not observe’,” John mumbled under his breath. “I know.”

The man smiled again, and they sat in silence for a while. It was never pleasant to be made a fool of, especially when Sherlock was the culprit. He was ever so smug and jubilant in the face of duping a person, save for the random occasion that he was surprised by the fact that something had gone over their head – that they could have been so stupid that they didn’t know.

In Sherlock’s room, the great man himself was muttering and swearing as he took a steaming shower. The air was so humid that he couldn’t bear to breathe without feeling like he was drowning. He had to turn down the temperature twice. Often times he would shower underneath a lukewarm spray, but in moments of angry passion he hardly paid attention to preferences. His mind was on fire in a way that he couldn’t do much more than think of all of the crude utterances he could spit at both of the men. The nerve!

He always hated to hear those words, “You will”, prefacing anything. If you asked him to do anything, he would at least hear out the request. If he didn’t honour it, he gave a reason. Of course that reason might well be “I don’t want to”, “I don’t see the point”, or “It’s useless”. But at least then the other person would have the reason behind his choice not to follow through. This was _highly_ unsavoury, and if it were worth the argument, he would be shouting at them now. However he was aware that it was a somewhat reasonable request, and didn’t bother.

That didn’t mean he would be nice about it.

Half an hour later Sherlock emerged from his room, properly dressed and groomed in accordance for an occasion such as a memorial. Heads turned in his direction – Mycroft sucked air through his teeth at his silent rebellion at wearing a tie, but he allowed it. The fact that Sherlock had obeyed at all was cause for celebration, no matter how annoyed he was in doing so.

“Are we going or not?” Sherlock demanded as he walked over to the front door. He took up his coat in an elegant swish, pulling it on. With a little less grace, he snatched his scarf from the hook of the coat tree and tugged it around his neck.

“Funny you’re so impatient for someone who has avoided this all day,” Mycroft said, slowly getting up. He brushed himself off and gave a solemn look to John. “I expect you will still be here when we return?”

John frowned. “I guess,” he said with resignation, because he knew he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Not when Mycroft asked it like that.

“I’m eager to get it over with,” Sherlock said stiffly, and stalked out of the flat.

“Exactly...how much danger do you think he’s in tonight?” John asked. It wasn’t hard to figure out that that’s why Mycroft wanted him to stay.

Mycroft’s mouth twitched as he looked at the doorway, and he licked his lower lip in thought. “You remember the night of Irene Adler’s supposed death.”

“Yes...”

“Consider it to be worse by tenfold.”

John blew out a breath and stood from the coffee table. “Okay. Have...a good memorial,” he muttered, unsure how to give his best wishes in this circumstance. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s appreciated, I assure you.” Mycroft left shortly after, and John was hopeless but to stare in wonder and disgust at their brother’s skull. It seemed to be looking at him in despair for being left behind.

He decided he didn’t want to be in the room with it anymore and collected his laptop before he went upstairs to his room. 


	2. Weakness in Invulnerability

People started dying when he was thirteen. He’d accepted death as a reality far before then, but that was the point where distant relatives were becoming too old to keep up with their grandchildren, great grandchildren, and so on. He remembered being in a car when his father got a call, right in the passenger’s seat beside the man. He didn’t think anything of it at the time – his father’s replies were standard and resembling small talk. When he ended the call, Sherlock looked over at his father with an expectant expression.

His father began laughing hysterically, and Sherlock smiled a little. He enjoyed seeing him happy, and declared it aloud as he beamed at him.

His joy turned to guilt when the boisterous laughter turned to uncontrollable sobs. As observant as he was back then, somehow that desperate deflection of despair convinced him that everything was okay for a fraction of a second. Sherlock averted his eyes and pat his father’s shoulder as he tried not to cry for him.

It turned out that his great grandfather died that day, and his grandmother called her son to let him know. Sherlock didn’t feel any grief over that death. He didn’t attend the funeral because his father told him he didn’t have to, and the only feelings he ended up keeping in relation to that loss was the twinge of guilt over feeling nothing at all.

He felt this guilt over again when his great grandmother (on his mother’s side) passed away. He’d been there, visiting her in the hospital and spent those nights in silent observation as he watched his mother break down at the reality of losing the woman. Sherlock comforted her as best as he could, and it was always awkward for him. A hug, maybe a reassuring touch, but inside he was wondering why he didn’t grieve.

The first time he was confronted with misery in the wake of a relative’s death was when his brother died. He and Mycroft mentioned Alexander in light as “the defective one” because it was easier. It was far simpler to refer to a person as a mechanical imperfection than an individual who felt heartache, pain, and despair like anyone else. Being fair meant you had to evaluate your emotions.

Sherlock stood in front of his gravestone with his eyes fixed on a tree that provided shelter from the light sprinkle above them. It made their hair dewy with twinkling droplets, and their noses scrunched to avoid the mist. He felt the presence of Mycroft a few steps behind him, but didn’t speak to him. Their parents weren’t here. He knew why. They didn’t want to be reminded of the life that was cut too short.  

Fingers tapped on his shoulder and he looked back at Mycroft with a questioning brow. His brother held out a cigarette and a small breath escaped him before he took it from him. He held it between his lips as the man kindly lit it for him. Sherlock took a long drag and looked up at the sky. “One day we will have sun,” he said. “Rain is too good for gloom.”

Mycroft let out a low chuckle and pocketed his lighter. “I’m sure he would approve.”

“What does it matter?” Sherlock asked as he turned his gaze back at the gravestone. He blew a puff of smoke into the grey air and closed his eyes.

“It doesn’t.”

“Comfort doesn’t suit you, dear brother. You should stick to hard practicality.”

“Would that make you feel better?”

“Yes.” Sherlock paused. He shrugged and took another drag. “It’s better than this desperate talk of ‘what if’ and ‘he’s still with us’. He isn’t. And that’s fine.”

Mycroft hummed in response. They went silent for the amount of time it took for Sherlock to finish his cigarette at his leisure. When he was done, he dropped it on the overgrown grass and crushed it underneath his foot. He didn’t think about the possible disrespect that showed.

“Why did you avoid it today?” his brother asked.

He didn’t answer for a long while. It was hard to tell whether he forgot the question or if he needed to carefully construct his answer. His lips parted, then sealed again. Finally he said, “I can’t keep coming back for the purpose of feeling sad.” Sherlock shook his head. “Forced melancholy is dry and numbing. I’m finished.”

Mycroft sighed in his show of disapproval, but didn’t say anything in argument. Somewhere he knew that Sherlock was right. They had to move on, as terrible as that sounded. They didn’t need to sit here and shed practiced tears to remember their brother. “Why do you still have his skull?” he asked, furrowing his brow as he poked at the moist ground with the tip of his umbrella. “It doesn’t sound like the practice of one that isn’t in mourning.”

“I was attempting to guilt myself into feeling loss. Devastating, mortal loss that might cause someone to suffocate from holding sobs back.”

“Why?”

“Because Alexander was my brother and my friend, and I should feel loss.” Sherlock laughed at himself. “So they would have me think.”

“Caring is not-”

“An advantage.” His mouth quirked and he shook his head again. “When you repeat it all throughout the years, it loses its sting. I’m no longer impressed with your decision to be alone.” Sherlock poked his tongue at his cheek. “It doesn’t strengthen you. Perhaps it is an advantage, but repeating these proverbs just shows a great sense of overcompensation. We don’t try because the concept of finding someone that reflects our senses and thought process seems impossible, but then we pretend that we do it because people are idiots and not good enough to be with us. People _are_ idiots. However, it’s incredibly conceited of us to assume that not one of them could be loyal or caring enough to make their average intelligence worthwhile.”

Mycroft glared at him in indignant silence. It seemed to last forever, his attempt to find the right angle to attack his statements from, but it became clear that there were none – none that wouldn’t be pathetic and transparent. “I’m perfectly satisfied with being alone.”

“As am I.” Sherlock blew out a foggy breath and burrowed his hands in the pockets of his coat. “Settling for mere satisfaction in the face of fear of the vulnerability it would take to reach happiness – that is pitiful.”

They didn’t talk any more that day. They both stayed for another twenty minutes before the brothers got back into Mycroft’s chauffeured car. Sherlock was dropped off back at Baker Street and John was waiting for him in the living room.

“How was it?” he asked when the man entered the flat. Sherlock started to shrug off his coat and hung it up, his scarf along with it.

“I don’t understand the question. Is there a way it should have been?” Sherlock asked in some semblance of good humour. He walked over to his chair and sat with a sigh. “You put the fire out.”

“Had to. You leave so many papers all over the place, we’re going to have a fire one day.” John closed his laptop and placed it on the end table. He outstretched his legs and crossed them, leaning back into his own chair. “I don’t know, Sherlock. I’ve never been where you are.”

“Yet you feel very comfortable in the role of jumping my arse to make sure that I go.” Sherlock chuckled softly and ran a hand through his dark curls, tousling them before his hand rested on the arm of the chair again. “It was fine,” he said.

He seemed unburdened now, and John was glad he made him go. Even if it meant that Sherlock wouldn’t be particularly fond of him for the next few days. “You look better.”

He hummed in reply and looked down as he toed off his shoes. It took a few tries to take the black socks off only with his toes, but he did get it eventually. “I won’t be visiting next year,” Sherlock said. “If you find yourself tempted to argue and shout at me for that, do yourself a favour and keep it in your head. I don’t answer to you.”

John swallowed. “I’m so-“

“You just thought you knew what was best for me. I understand.” He huffed and squeezed the leathery material that covered the arms of his chair. Sherlock poked his tongue in his cheek and shook his head. “By now you should be used to it.”

He laughed. “Believe me, I’ve gotten used to a lot of things. There are still things I have to disagree with. You can’t expect blanket approval, Sherlock.”

“I don’t.”

John gazed at him for a while. It was always pointless to attempt to decipher whatever was going on in his head. Sherlock would always be a mystery. He wondered if this feeling of anonymity would continue fading in and out of existence for as long as he knew him. He let the conversation die and looked at the clock for a while, watching the seconds twitch by. Four years. In that time, Sherlock deduced things from him that it would have taken decades to speak aloud.

He sighed. “Do you want a drink?”

Sherlock frowned, his eyes flicking across the features of his face. He seemed to be deducing John’s motive. “I’d like one, yes,” he finally said.


	3. The Tactics of the Practical

Sherlock and John drank beer and watched telly absent-mindedly. John was much more eager in chasing inebriation. By the time Sherlock finished one, John was working on his third. He didn’t blame him for it, however, and didn’t bother making a comment on his sister’s habits in order to warn him about the rate of consumption. He supposed John wanted to be there to “comfort” him and didn’t know what to do. Obviously drinking was the next best thing to comfort.

He sighed and leaned forward to set his empty bottle down. He didn’t take up another one of them. Sherlock sat back and crossed his legs with a soft sigh as he gazed at his brother’s skull. He needed to rid himself of it soon – now it was just odd to have it sitting here, without a purpose. Initially it sat there and stared at him as he eagerly shouted ideas and declared the solution to cases, but now John did just as good of a job at doing that for him. He also talked back and questioned the things that didn’t quite make sense, which would cause Sherlock to either commit to an idea and its explanation or throw it out completely.

Alexander was a rubbish shot, anyway. He never could have killed that cabbie, even when he was alive, not from that distance.

“You never really described him,” John hummed, looking over to Sherlock. He seemed to be slipping from his seat from how his body surrendered into its comfort. After a few minutes, he just ended up on the floor, leaning against the chair. He reached behind himself and grabbed his union jack cushion, setting it in his lap. “Your brother.”

“He’s dead and you didn’t know him. Why would you want to know about him?” Sherlock asked with a frown. “That’s like when you talk about your coworker’s cousins. I zone out – I don’t want to know about people I don’t know and won’t ever meet, it’s useless. And annoying.”

John laughed and shrugged. “I don’t know. You never bring anything up unless it’s important. Never text me unless you need me to do something. I feel like I’m some sort of implement, a tool you use to get what you want. I mean… you know everything about me. And I didn’t even know you had a brother until your other brother, who I initially didn’t know was related to you, mentioned him today.”

He scrunched his face and tried to decipher that sentence. “I think I understand what you’re getting at,” he mumbled.

“I just don’t feel like I’m your friend.” He sighed and took another sip of his beer.

“But you are my friend.”

“Am I?”

“What makes you doubt it?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like I’m… there.”

Sherlock frowned. He looked at John and bit his cheek. “I don’t understand why you believe that you could be anything less than my friend. We talk frequently.”

John laughed. “You just went silent for forever today and wouldn’t tell me why!” He shook his head. “No, you have to do better than that,” he said, waggling a finger at him. “You have to show me.”

He rolled his eyes. Wasn’t it blatantly obvious? If he didn’t want John around, he wouldn’t be there. If he didn’t like him, he wouldn’t associate with him, and he wouldn’t ask him to accompany him on cases. “I do show you.”

“Yeah? In what way?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

He pouted and took another few gulps of his beer before he finished it and set it on the coffee table. “We’re flatmates. I kind of have to be here, it’s partly my flat, and it’s my home. Me being here doesn’t say anything about you wanting me here. If it says anything, it means that I want to be around you, because you’re here more often than not.” John paused and thought for a while. Sherlock was almost always here, when they weren’t on a case. He’d take his walks but that was the only example he could come up with as to absences. “Bit of a recluse, actually,” John mumbled under his breath.

He chuckled. “I like it here. Everything I need is here.”

He hummed in response.

“What I meant was that if I didn’t want you around, you wouldn’t be. If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t spend time with you, even in silence. You don’t have to be bursting with affection and compliments to like someone’s company, John.” Sherlock gazed at the telly for a short while. “Sometimes I like being quiet, and that’s fine. It doesn’t mean anything is wrong. It might not even mean that I’m focused on any one topic. It simply means… I have nothing to say. Is that all right with you?”

John knew very well he wasn’t asking for permission. It was an appeal to understanding. He sighed. Maybe he was expecting too much. Sherlock, despite being a genius, was a very simple man. He contemplated this for a while as he breathed softly and picked at the lint on his cushion. “I just wish I could feel like I know you,” he admitted in a small voice. He looked back up at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked down at his lap. He didn’t have a reply to that. He could assure him that he knew him more than anyone else, but that said more about himself than it did about John. It spoke to his level of privacy and encouraged the notion that he should just let go and find an easier friend, one that could make him feel appreciated and important. If he was being objective, he would openly admit that that was easier, and he might even tell John that he should find someone better at all of the sentimental things. “I apologise for making you feel that way,” he said, swallowing. “You know how I am, John. It’s not a conscious decision. In fact, sharing – or whatever it is that they do to establish that knowledge and intimacy – isn’t my area of expertise. I never had friends as a child.”

His face fell, and John squeezed his cushion. He wanted to give him a hug. “I’m sorry.”

He laughed. “Don’t pity me, John. It isn’t a sad admission, simply one of fact.” He didn’t know what he’d missed, and couldn’t feel bad for never having it. Even now, when he had something resembling friendship, he couldn’t feel bad. “I’d tell you to find someone else, but I know you won’t do that.”

“You’re right.” He smiled.

“You’ll have to tell me what you want. I don’t know the expectations.”

“What, like write a list?”

“That would be extremely helpful.”

John laughed and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. Of course Sherlock wanted a list, how could he expect anything else of him? “Okay. I’ll… get working on that, then. Thank you.”

“I want you around for a while,” Sherlock said, like it was a simple fact. It was. “I don’t imagine you could come up with anything so terrible to make me change my mind. And no – that isn’t a challenge. If you tell me that I have to shine your shoes, I’m going to draw the line and make you find a new friend that will do that for you.”

“Damn it, you saw through my evil plan. What will I do?”

“Shine your own damn shoes,” he replied, smirking.

John giggled. “I guess so.”


	4. Narrowing it Down

List of “Friendship Things People Do”

1\. Listen to each other’s problems

\- Express sympathy (“I’m sorry”, “that sucks”, “you have my condolences”)  
\- Offer solutions (“have you tried…”, “If I were you…”, “you should…”)  
\- Not scoff and declare that it is “dull”, “boring”, or “stupid”.  
\- Distract (beer, movies, other fun activities. Not randomly shooting the wall or doing anything else that might give someone a heart attack.)  
\- Console by physical contact, such as hugs (won’t force you into this one but an effort would be appreciated) 

2\. Spend time together  
\- Watch movies or programs even if they are or include "tedious", "boring", "poorly-written and not at all realistic", "not physically possible" content  
\- Do things that both of the people enjoy  
- _Do not play Cluedo if they are going to fight over it to the point of brandishing weapons.  
_ -Talk (doesn’t have to be interesting, but I will try to be)

3\. Make small talk  
-A simple “hey” or “how’s it going” is fine, I won’t torture you.

4\. Share  
\- Ask questions about each other  
\- Answer questions (even if it’s “I wouldn’t be comfortable answering”)  
\- Randomly bring up anecdotes that aren’t necessarily relevant

5\. Do favours for each other

\- Do not use favours as bargaining chips (i.e., “you owe me”)  
- _This includes getting groceries._

6. _ **Do not have a bloody form that binds each other to rules as to how to be a friend.**_

\- But I’ll let it slide. 


	5. Not on the List

John went to work the next day. The light sprinkle finally turned to a proper pour, and Sherlock rejoiced with a burst of energy and even joy, both of the feelings coursing through him and warming his demeanor. Mrs. Hudson was delighted to hear a “thank you” when she dropped off his tea and biscuits at a time he was usually still asleep, or too bothered with whatever he was doing that he couldn’t acknowledge her presence. It was odd – Sherlock’s disposition could dampen or brighten the mood of the entire flat, but it was so subtle he didn’t even notice the phenomenon.

He looked at the list the man left on the fridge with amusement, and rebellion scratched at the back of his mind. He ignored it. Sherlock asked John for a list and he would use it, because his friend took the time to go out of his zone of normality – different from a comfort zone because when one leaves their comfort zone, they feel uncomfortable; when one leaves their zone of normality, they often feel ridiculous or stupid. That feeling was similar to when Sherlock ever had to voice his affection for someone, namely his mother. She knew his discomfort and made him do it anyway. He didn’t know why, and would often accuse her of enjoying his frustration. She never admitted to it, of course.

Sherlock decided that this was a good thing, and that they could make progress. He was good with John when he wasn’t trying to force him into being something he wasn’t. He could try to open up a little more, but the concept was alien to him. The frailty of genius was not just that it needed an audience, but that it was assumed that everyone was the same – conflicted, but it switched from one to another with ease. He’d also try to stop being content with being alone and go after those that made him happy when he was in their company. No doubt that would bring him odd looks.

During the day he emailed Sebastian Wilkes, but not out of the good sentiment of company. He was the only person he still knew and could talk to with ease. It was forced, but still simple. He stiffly talked about the past and discussed where people were now, and Sebastian couldn’t see how annoyed he was at the information he was being fed. People he didn’t know back then and didn’t want to know now. Eventually he gave a flimsy excuse about a new case being too interesting to multitask through and didn’t email him again.

He found himself thinking “People are idiots” for the rest of the day.

The person he could speak to, other than John, was so far gone that he wouldn’t know what to say now.

Sherlock spent the last hour of John working lounging on the windowsill with his feet braced against the back of the sofa. He watched the damp streets and the people rush out of cabs. They all seemed so purposeful and busy, but for all the wrong reasons. Enter the Mary Sue, or John Smith, the person who had a job they didn’t particularly like but it paid well. They were married and had a child that was in primary school, and they wanted more, but could hardly find the time to get a good shag in between balancing work and the nightmare child that wanted entertainment and company at all times. It was all the same, they just had different names for their little details. Their child was named Christopher, Susie, Janey, or Aaron. Their wives and husbands were named Kristen, Jamie, Francis, John, or William.

How hateful.

He was so focused on his spite for that template that he didn’t pay attention when John was one of the men rushing out of the cabs. Sherlock was vaguely aware of it, of course, as he was aware when the front door opened behind him and John sighed.

John tossed his jacket on the coat tree before he pushed the sleeves of his jumper and shirt up. “Hey, Sherlock,” he said. There was a pointed, concerned air about him.

He didn’t reply until he remembered “small talk”. “Hey,” Sherlock rumbled back. He didn’t break his gaze through the window to acknowledge him more. “Work was fine.”

He pursed his lips for half a second. “That’s not a question…yes, it was.”

“If it wasn’t, you’d be complaining about it.”

“True. Have you eaten?”

Sherlock shook his head, waving his hand in dismissal. “I wasn’t hungry. I will eat whatever you decide to have for dinner. Lest I faint.”

“Good.” It was pointed again.

“You’re not going to get married and have a child and not have any time for fun anymore, right?”

John furrowed his brow and tried to figure out what exactly that was supposed to mean. How long did he have that on his tongue? “I’d rather not have that last bit.”

“It’s a side effect of the first two.”

“Not having time for fun?”

“Because you’ll be working to keep your wife in finery while she complains to her friends about you.”

“God…” He shook his head and went to the kitchen, opening the fridge. He bit his cheek as he looked at everything, but didn’t really think about it. They would probably get Chinese. “Where did that come from?”

Sherlock shrugged and took his feet from the sofa, popping up from the windowsill. “It’s how things go. Everyone thinks they’re the exception. You didn’t answer the question.”

“And what was that?” he asked, closing the fridge. John went to the pantry to gaze there instead.

“Are you going to be boring and get married, have children and be too busy shuffling papers to have any fun?”

“I plan on getting married and having children, yes.” John sighed and looked back at Sherlock, who was now walking into the kitchen. It seemed to just be a transportation technique from one surface to another – he sat on the counter and ducked to avoid hitting his back against the cabinets. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m concerned about you,” he said, as if it were obvious.

“Concerned?”

“Yes, concerned, is that a problem? That is one of those… ‘friend’ things, yes? I see you neglected to mention that.”

John laughed softly and shut the pantry. He leaned against it and crossed his arms, sighing. “I’m not going to force you to care about me. Either you do or don’t.”

“A very wise statement coming from you.”

He frowned and made a face. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re rather focused on sentiment.” Sherlock looked down at his feet as he swung them back and forth. He had such long toes… He didn’t know where that observation came from. “I simply…wish for you to have better things. You deserve better than monotony and someone complaining about you instead of doing anything to help.”

He blinked at him. Sherlock didn’t really come out and say things like that. “I…thank you,” he mumbled. “I’m glad you think of me so highly.”

“I’m just stating things as they are. You _do_ deserve better than that.”

John smiled at him and laughed again before he walked over to him. “Stand up.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, his eyes going wide. His knee lifted in some hint of a defensive position. “What did I do?”

“Just stand up.”

He hesitantly let his feet touch the ground and stood up straight. He towered over him even more now. “What exact-“

John wrapped his arms around his torso loosely and pat his back, standing on the balls of his feet so he could rest his chin on his shoulder.

Sherlock continued to keep his wide-eyed expression and just stood there for a few seconds before he bent his arms to mimic the brace. He pat his back because John had done it, though he didn’t know the point of it. “I still don’t understand.”

“It’s fine. Another one of those ‘friends’ things,” he said as he pulled away. He clapped him on the shoulder before he stepped away to walk to the other side of the kitchen again. John pulled out a drawer and started to shuffle through menus. “Chinese tonight?”

“Yes, that would be…good,” he muttered. Sherlock frowned at the warm feeling in his stomach and ran a hand through his mop of curls. “Order in and we’ll watch crap telly.”

“Sounds like a plan.”


	6. Understanding

It took several days for John to get up the nerve to ask Sherlock about his brother. Even with the list that justified his right to ask questions, he knew that Sherlock was odd and locked tightly, and it might be difficult to get him to say anything that wasn’t a blatant attempt at avoiding a direct answer. He didn’t know if he did it on purpose or if it was entirely subconscious.

On the nearest Thursday, Sherlock lie on the sofa in the early evening. The skull of his brother was in his hands again, but he was loath to look at it with emotion. He inspected the cracks and the yellowing and wondered what he was to do with a skull not buried in the coffin with the rest of its accompanying bones. Perhaps it would return to the mantle and become forgotten and neglected.

John’s footsteps thumped against the wooden stairs, encroaching their front door. There was a jingle of keys before it opened, and the doctor gazed at Sherlock with thought before he closed it again. John took his jacket off and hung it up on the coat tree’s hook, then went to the kitchen to make himself some tea. There was an unasked question in the air.

“What?” Sherlock asked after a moment of silence. John had forgotten to say his normal greeting, too.

“I didn’t say anything.” The sound of water bubbling faded into existence.

He rolled his eyes and set the skull down on the coffee table before he turned to face the sofa, wrapping his robe around himself tighter. It took a moment before Sherlock remembered to reply. “Yes, and you usually do. You didn’t. Therefore – what?”

His flatmate sighed and shook his head as he took the kettle off and poured himself some tea. He added some sugar and left the kitchen to sit in his chair. By now it knew the shape of his arse so well that it didn’t even have to be sat on to take the form. He would need a new chair soon, or a new cushion. John sipped his tea and hummed as he thought.

He was still in the company of that skull. He didn’t know why he expected anything different, but the day of the memorial seemed to be one of internal change, and usually that wrought the external counterpart. So why hadn’t it? “You still have his skull,” he said.

“Yes.”

John groaned. “You know, when I say things like that, I’m not doing it to be obvious.”

“It does seem to be a rather obvious statement.”

“For god’s sake – for a brilliant man, you can be so dim... _Why_ do you still have his skull?”

Sherlock pursed his lips at the insult, but he supposed he had it coming. He knew that John mentioned things in order to bring them to the table and ask about them, but sometimes he couldn’t be bothered with dealing with the implied questions. And he probably just confirmed the statements just to be a complete and utter arse – for his own amusement, of course. “I can’t exactly put it where it belongs. Not only does there need to be a very good reason to dig up a body, I’m not too keen on seeing the corpse of my brother.”

He smiled wryly. “I can see that being an unwanted image, yeah,” John said, a little softer than he spoke before. He drank more of his tea and looked at the lonely skull. It seemed to be morose, in a way, as if it knew that it was no longer a coveted object to be revered. More like a burden, now. “You never told me anything about him.”

He realised this left him open for another smart-arsed reply and added, “What was he like?”

The man’s shoulder moved. Horizontally, it didn’t look like much of a shrug.

“Oh, come on...”

“What?”

“Sherlock, I’m trying, here. I don’t know the right questions to ask or how to even approach something delicately with you, because you always seem to get angry with me. You make me feel like you don’t think I’m worthy of knowing you. And I’m pretty sure that’s not true, so can you please try to be a little more open?” John asked. He sounded pleading, which struck Sherlock oddly with something similar to guilt.

He moved slowly, turning himself over first before he sat up and tucked his legs aside. Sherlock pursed his lips in thought as he played with the silk belt of his robe. He didn’t know where to start. He could describe anyone if he felt the need to, but being asked was different. Pressured. “He was funny.” He smiled to himself before he met John’s eyes. “Poor, really, low-brow humour, but it was good. Refreshing to Mycroft’s permanent ‘I-am-not-amused’ affect.”

John hummed at him. A smile spread on his face. Finally, a step. “Did you get on well?”

He nodded without hesitation. “Yes, of course. We were very like-minded in most cases, but he seemed easy.”

“Easy?”

Sherlock pouted. “Give me a moment.” He glanced away and looked into the air in his calculating manner, not unlike the expression he took on at a crime scene. John took that opportunity to finish his tea and set it aside. “Easy, not in the off-handed way of promiscuity, but easy in...” He furrowed his brow.

He smiled and waited for him.

“Simple. He was easy to please, preferred inexpensive, personal gifts over ones with a big price tag. In fact, he was uncomfortable with excessive money being spent on him.” Sherlock beamed at his lap, and he said, “Our mother would sometimes buy us little gifts when she went shopping for groceries and what-have-you, and she would get him candy and these stupid little plush toys. Usually when they were on special, around Valentine’s Day and Christmas. For months before that holiday even arrived, his breath would always smell like peppermint.”

Sherlock sighed. He seemed to be blinking in excess, but his eyes weren’t steaming like expected. John looked at him with concern and considered going over to sit by him, but he didn’t know if it was wanted. So he waited for him to speak again, if he would. Even this was more than he ever expected to get out of him, and though it was sad, he was grateful to see him human.

“I may not be interested in forcing myself to mourn him, but that doesn’t mean I do not miss him,” he admitted, his voice stiff. It came out defensive.

He swallowed. “I didn’t mean to imply-“

“I know. You didn’t. Not today, and not the day of his memorial.” He pursed his lips before he looked back at John. He seemed pained. “I simply wanted you to know. People take examples and attempt to project and predict things, and that’s annoying, but understandable. They want to know what it will be like when it applies to them. So if you are wondering, John, if we end up in the unfortunate situation where you are dead and I survive you, I would miss you too.”

John’s smile turned to a grimace and he sniffed, blinking a little as he broke eye contact. Damn him. Damn him and his stupid ability to mean so much and talk about these hard subjects better than most people. “You’re an arse,” he mumbled as he sniffed again, touching his forehead in an attempt to hide his face.

He laughed, and all his discomfort seemed to melt away in that instant. “Forgive me, John, I didn’t intend to have that effect on you, I was only speaking as a matter of fact.” He stood up and walked over to him. He swayed in a moment of hesitance before he put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

Sherlock’s heart raced in worry, but he tossed aside all thought of propriety and insecurity as to whether this was what he wanted. He was supposed to console by physical contact, as John mentioned in the list, so it was fine. But it was still odd for him, and he wasn’t sure until John covered his hand for a half-second to squeeze in thanks. His hand fell back onto his lap.

“I never expected to hear that from you,” John said after a minute. It didn’t take long to regain his composure. When he appeared fine again, Sherlock pulled from him and sat across from him instead.

“I suppose I have set the precedent for coldness. I’m aware that it was rather out of character for me, but I know where your mind might have gone, and I needed you to not worry. It’s annoying when you worry – when you’re unsure of how important you are.” He furrowed his brow.

He hummed, and kept himself from repeating, “I’m important?” Sherlock didn’t like fishing for compliments, though he might have been a little understanding here. He would just internalise it and embrace the warm feeling.

He was important to him.

God, how could have he ever been mistaken?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that "Mycroft’s permanent ‘I-am-not-amused’ affect" is grammatically correct, as "affect" is used in psychology jargon to describe the emotional demeanour of a person (i.e, "She displayed a happy affect") to distinguish that even though one might appear happy, you can never know what's really going on in their head.


	7. Platonic

The restaurant was gorgeous. Patrons sat at circular tables with fitted tablecloths that fluttered to the floor in draping gestures. In between them was a glass rectangular holder in which three tea candles sat, flickering just the slightest bit. The lighting was low and everything was delicate, even the voice of the waiter, who had the most professionally clean and trimmed beard that he’d laid eyes on.

And yet, despite this perfect setting, he could not bring himself to be interested in the date. The woman that sat across from him was classy, polite, and charming, and he couldn’t absorb anything she said. Her dress was no doubt expensive and she’d gone through a lot of trouble to impress him, and the way her voice tilted showed she was eager and nervous. She didn’t even mention how casual he looked for a restaurant like this, either not caring or just trying too hard not to speak ill of the romantic prospect.

“The entire time I was watching the film I was either chastising his girlfriend for being so dramatic and insecure or I was admiring the independence of the injured woman’s neighbour, misguided as it was. At the end, however, I felt that he was better off for attempting to assist her, and could see the upside to making a sacrifice to help people. Much like you,” she said with her glittering smile, a slight blush rising to her cheeks. John wondered if there was a reason she was trying so hard.

Then he realised he had to respond. “That’s... very flattering, Katherine,” he said gruffly, forcing a smile. He didn’t catch half of that, or the title of the movie. He didn’t know if he would ever watch it, either.

John cut off a piece of his steak and tried not to clench his jaw at the brown-pink centre. He’d asked for it rare. He decided to suck it up instead of complaining; those interactions were always awkward and there was a fifty-fifty chance of getting a new steak that’d gotten spit on. He took a bite and nodded at Katherine when she went on to talk about something else, obviously just trying to keep the conversation going.

About halfway through his steak, she excused herself to go to the bathroom and John took the opportunity to check his phone. He had four texts from Sherlock:

 

You’re not here. I spent half an hour with the telly on wondering why you hadn’t made your way downstairs. –SH

The documentary is boring. Universe, Big Bang. Pluto. –SH

Everyone mourns Pluto. Why? No one from Earth has ever lived there. People are so sentimental about the silliest things. –SH

I don’t expect you to respond to these texts, but if I say it aloud without an audience, the humour is lost. Tell me when you’re done with your date. –SH

 

John smiled at his phone and let out a soft sigh. He didn’t know what he was doing here. Lately, his idea of a good time changed from going on exciting dates to getting pissed with Sherlock and playing games. Or just talking. He had a lot of interesting things to say when he was buzzed – he didn’t recall actually seeing the man drunk, just humming to himself and getting up to go to the bathroom a lot. He texted him back:

 

_She went to the bathroom. She’s gorgeous, but I can’t retain a thing she’s saying. And I’m trying, believe me. They cooked my steak too much._

Does the steak have anything to do with you not being able to pay attention or is that just another complaint about the date? –SH

_...Both. It’s dry._

Tell me the colour of her eyes. –SH

 

He frowned and furrowed his brow as he tried to think. He couldn’t recall. She was blonde, so... well, he’d seen blondes with many different eye colours. Most of the time it was blue.

 

_I don’t remember. Weird._

Not weird. Wait until she gets back to pay your half and then leave. Might as well call the waiter over now. –SH

I’ll cook some steak, if you like. –SH

_You know how to cook?_

Yes. I didn’t live in a padded cell all my life and get tossed into Bart’s the day we met. –SH

_I suppose not. I’ve just never seen you cook before._

You always do it. Tell me when you’ve left. –SH

 

John blew out a soft breath and called for his cheque before he put his phone back into his pocket. He felt bad for Katherine, but he didn’t think that he had to be here if he didn’t enjoy himself. At least he was doing her the courtesy of paying for his part of it and actually saying goodbye – this is what he told himself. He wasn’t sure if it was rationalising or simply trying to stop feeling guilty.

Also, she chose the cheapest thing on the menu. She could manage that. Though if she couldn’t, he’d cover her, he supposed.

All of his anxious wonderings were halted at the sight of her flowing down the staircase. She was looking at her feet and trying not to step on the edge of her dress. Katherine smiled at John as she sat, scooting her chair in.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked. Her eyes crinkled more when she widened the grin.

John chuckled in embarrassment and nodded. “Yes...ah, I think I’m going to pop off. It’s no offense to you, really – you’re gorgeous. I just-“

The smile dropped to a frown. “Did I say something? I talked too much, didn’t I, I always ramble when I’m nervous...”

“Katherine – no, that’s not...” John shook his head at her and reached over the table to hold her wrists. It was gentle, just to get her to focus. “You’re very pretty, and charming, and all sorts of things that I’m sure I couldn’t even compete with. Frankly, I can’t fathom why I’m not doing my best to flirt with you until your knickers drop, but... I’m not. And there’s no telling why, but I’m not going to be cruel and act like this is something it’s not. I’m not going to waste your time. All right?”

She stared at him with angelic eyes that made guilt flood through him, but she nodded slowly and pulled her hands to her lap. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Really, truly, but... I-I applaud your honesty?” Her voice went high and unsure.

“I am too, believe me,” John muttered, more to himself. The waiter came by with the cheque and he opened it with a frown. Twenty pounds for a salad? He decided not to go through the awkwardness of asking her to pay for her share, because it was likely that she had gone here under the impression that he was paying for the entire meal. He pulled out his wallet and took out enough to cover the meal and a generous tip.

Katherine looked to John with an astonished expression and just gave him a shy wave before she turned back to her dinner with a large frown, contemplating the entire date.

He left, and he didn’t say anything to her because he had no idea where he could go with it, but he was grateful with how gracious she was. An earlier John would have tried to hold on to her as long as possible, but no doubt he would screw up in some way and make her leave. John walked out onto the kerb and hailed a cab, asking the cabbie to take him to 221B Baker St.

He called Sherlock rather than texting him, but he only had half-faith that he would pick it up. Sherlock avoided phone calls like the plague, and he didn’t know why. Perhaps he would ask.

“She didn’t cry, did she?” came Sherlock’s response once he picked up. Leather crinkled in the background; he was getting up.

John laughed softly. “No – and I was surprised. She seemed so eager and...glittery,” he mumbled with a frown. “I just thought of something.”

“That thought is?”

“Why do you not like picking up the phone?”

“Lack of eye contact and facial expressions, and it allows for mobility and multitasking. One would think those benefits of a phone call, but they are often taken advantage of. It’s difficult to speak over the sound of a zooming road or characters on telly...” He paused for a short while. “Also makes people forget what they were saying because they were focusing on some other task. If people treated phone calls like everyday conversation, I might be able to stand it.”

“Down to a science...” John smiled to himself as he looked out the window. Buildings and alleys between passed him by, lit up by the streetlights. He loved London at night. “Do you always think about these things so much?”

He could practically hear his frown. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“When I ask you things, either you avoid it – for fun, I think – or you give me a bunch of information all at once, like you’ve thought about it before and put it all in a script, then just... waited for someone to ask.”

A hum rang through the phone, the low rumble of his throat. The sound made the hairs of his neck tingle. “That’s more accurate than you think it is. It is not always true, however – I will sometimes simply speak as I think, but I think much faster than I could ever hope to speak or write, even by keyboard.”

“Is that why your handwriting is all tilted and sloppy?”

“The tilt has nothing to do with it; merely implies emotional status. For example, I once knew a family friend that would write in large letters tilted to the right of the paper, almost overly so. Graphology, while it might be a pseudo-science, was correct in stating that she was extroverted and overly emotional. That’s not the only thing that it was correct in, but the only part that’s relevant enough to stop me from going on a long ramble of information.”

He chuckled to himself and glanced at his lap before he looked out the window again. “I could listen a little more. You said nothing about it being sloppy.”

“Illegibility, combined with a good vocabulary and writing speed, implies intelligence. Or more accurately, that the writer wants to get the words on the paper as quickly as possible so not to lose their train of thought. How do you like your steak?”

“Barely dead.”

“I’ll have to pan-fry it, not as good as it is on a grill, but I’m certain you’ll like it...”

John let out a soft sigh and closed his eyes. His body was tingling in an odd way, like a chill that was comfortable. “I like talking to you, Sherlock,” he admitted. “When you’re not irritated.”

“I am almost always irritated.”

“That’s not true.”

“No, of course not.” There was a loud sizzle in the background, and if he could smell it, he swore his stomach would be screaming for good food.

“So who taught you how to cook?”

There was a soft hum, no doubt a calculation of the most accurate answer. “Both of my parents. My mother is fond of baking, and my father is fond of red meat. Hence my abilities in cooking a good steak. He wouldn’t dare let me leave the house without having that down. Unfortunately, while I might have the knack for some forms of art, I have very little patience for things that take creative effort to master. The violin was a nightmare. I used to make cakes for our parents every time their birthday came up, but while they adored the monstrous frosting catastrophes, I would pout. They would taste good, though, because the baking part has obvious scientific traits. Measuring and being exact, following instructions to provide the desired result.”

He smiled and opened his eyes again, crossing his legs as he perched his face on the hand that held his phone. He was starting to see exactly how true his guess was. “Hard to imagine you making cake. But it seems right, though, at the same time. You’d be all professional and sciencey about it. Did you catch what I said earlier?”

“You’ll need to be specific.”

“I said I like talking to you.”

“Yes, I caught it. What of it?”

“Do you like talking to me too?”

“If I didn’t like talking to you, I would have never bothered with picking up the phone.” There was a smile there, somewhere in his voice. He liked making him smile.

“Good. I like that.”

He paused before he answered. “Have you had anything to drink tonight, John? Alcoholic beverages, to be specific – don’t tell me you had water.”

John frowned and sat back in his seat, unable to stop the body language that Sherlock couldn’t see. “No, I haven’t, why?”

“You seem off. Perhaps it’s only my imagination. Your steak is done and waiting for you, get here before it gets cold.” He hung up.


	8. Bums

He thought nothing of Sherlock’s abrupt end to the call, or his inquiry about whether he was inebriated. He felt too content to be bothered with small worries such as his motivations behind things, and took to smiling at himself over the new information.

Learning about Sherlock was enlightening; seeing all of those ways that he was human, had things he was good at, things he was bad at, family and warmth. He could’ve continued focusing on how he should’ve known these things sooner, but it would only ruin it. All that mattered was that he was learning, and because of it, he felt closer to Sherlock than he ever had.

The cab stopped after some nondescript amount of time and he paid him with a smile and a gracious “thank you” before he got out. The street air was cold and misty, indicative of rain coming soon. He didn’t much care for rain, but Sherlock always seemed to be different on those days. A little softer, a little kinder, and a lot more insightful. He wondered if the man noticed it about himself or if it was entirely subconscious. Like how people would let loose if they thought they were drinking alcohol.

He took in another breath before he unlocked the front door, closing it gently behind him. Mrs. Hudson was likely asleep. She got up so early in the morning, probably to have a moment to herself where the boys weren’t moving about in the flat upstairs. Maybe not. He walked up the long staircase and his stomach rumbled at the aroma of steak, which he hoped lived up to Sherlock’s talk about it. The man was seldom confident and wrong.

John walked into the flat and peered into the kitchen. Sherlock was standing at the counter with his back to the doorway, humming something to himself. He wondered if he was always so chipper when he was alone. But Sherlock must’ve known that he was in the room – without a turn or gesture, he said, “Good evening.”

He smiled and moved further to set his jacket on a dining chair. John put his hands on the back of the chair and stood there watching him. He couldn’t quite see what he was doing. “Hey, Sherlock,” he replied with a slight sigh. “Smells good.”

“Glad you think so.” The words were absent-minded, and he was sure he didn’t mean them. “Are you going to just stand there or are you going to sit?”

He laughed and pulled out the chair to sit in it. He felt nervous – what if it was terrible? Or what if it was good, but Sherlock just stood there lingering and watching as he ate? That would definitely make him self-conscious, and halfway through he’d be convinced the man dosed it with something. He reserved all judgements, however, and Sherlock turned from the counter and set a plate in front of him.

God, being served by him was weird. John tried to stop thinking about it, but it _was._ Sherlock never did anything more complex than pre-packaged foods or takeaway. To his relief, Sherlock walked from the table to wash a cutting board, and he was free to take a bite without the pressure of needing to flatter him.

He cut off a bite-sized portion and furrowed his brow in disbelief. Beyond the surface it was almost raw, really rare in the centre, enough to make him second-guess it. But he took a bite anyway and he didn’t have the self-restraint to stop the noises that rumbled from his own throat.

It wasn’t even a choice. His mouth watered and he continued having this ridiculous look on his face, as if the very existence of this food was absurd. Another noise - a moan or a growl, something – came from him, and he swallowed. It was embarrassing to have doubted him now. Sherlock paid him no attention, like it was expected. Or perhaps he was paying him some sort of respect, not being seen like that?

“What did you _do_ to this?” John asked incredulously after he finished another bite.

Over the running water, he replied, “Salt, pepper and olive oil.” Sherlock finished cleaning off the cutting board and shut the water off. He retrieved a towel from the rack and started to dry it. He eyed John with a slight frown before he decided that he wasn’t faking it just to flatter him. He hated when people did that – if he’d believed it, it would’ve instilled false confidence. “I take it you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I feel like I have to be in a separate room... Wait, really? Is that it? That doesn’t make much sense.”

“Crushed, not table. You let it sit before you add the olive oil,” Sherlock muttered as he bent over to put the cutting board in one of the smaller cabinets.

John beamed to himself. He was left to finish the steak, which he did in his own time. He knew he’d be asking the man to cook more often, he needed to. He felt like he’d been denied some great pleasure – and he had – and that it needed to be rectified several times over. Once he was done, he stood up and brought his plate to the sink, setting the knife on the side. He went to lean against the kitchen’s doorway with a satisfied sigh and watched Sherlock.

The man was tidying, but the word was generous. It was more of a rearrangement of items and putting them back into the places that he thought they needed to be in. He did things by convenience rather than neatness. “Yes?” he asked, looking up to meet John’s eyes.

“I was wondering if you’d like a drink.”

“It depends.”

He frowned, chuckling. “On what?”

“What sort of drinking are you going for?”

John hummed and looked to the fridge. They still had plenty of beer, and liquor too, now that he thought about it. “Enough to start giggling, at least?” he suggested.

Sherlock stood upright and gave a nod even though the man wasn’t looking. He weaved around the coffee table and the chairs to pass John by. As soon as he was in the kitchen he was a flurry of movements, pulling out a beer for John and digging in the liquor cabinet for something of his own. He didn’t much care for beer, though he would drink it if he wasn’t intending on getting much more than a light buzz. The wheat gave him a headache rather than the typical morning hangover. He set the beer on the table and produced a bottle of spiced rum from the cabinet before he went to the fridge again.

He laughed at how methodical he was being about the entire affair, and snatched his beer from the table. John twisted off the cap with a wince at the bends of the metal. It didn’t really hurt, but it was unpleasant as anything else. He drank some and watched Sherlock fumble with the jigger with a chuckle. It didn’t matter if you were drunk or not, you could never pour something out of it without spilling at least some of it on your own fingers.

Sherlock’s nose scrunched in a half-snarl once he was done and dried his hand off before pouring the soda. He felt John’s eyes on his back, but didn’t care enough to say something. “How was work?” he asked. As always, the words felt odd on his tongue. He knew it was fine.

“Same old,” John replied with a sigh. “Some kid got an action man’s foot up his nose and I had to get it with a pair of tweezers.”

He furrowed his brow at the way he imagined that to feel and shook his head before he put some ice cubes into his glass. “He’ll know better next time – hopefully. After that point it’s his own damn fault,” he muttered.

His eyes widened a little. It wasn’t uncommon for Sherlock to say those things, but there was some sort of malice behind it. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course.” He looked back at him with a frown. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem... off.”

“Ah. You needn’t worry.” Sherlock drank some and looked at the floor absent-mindedly.

“Telly?”

“I suppose.”

Sherlock and John sat in their respective chairs with their eyes on the telly for the next hour or so, John sitting sideways to accommodate the angle. He was on his fourth beer now, he thought, and he hadn’t paid attention to the amount that Sherlock drank. He knew it was multiple, and the detective was definitely buzzed. He was quiet and _soft._ Probably stuck in observing his own state. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much better this was than spending the night with Katherine.

Sherlock watched the telly and tilted his head. He wasn’t thinking about the plot because he’d spend half an hour tearing it apart. His breaths were slow and had no affectionate quality, but they seemed lovely. He didn’t even know how. It didn’t make sense. “She’s pretty,” he mumbled quietly when a new character showed on the screen.

John frowned, but he didn’t pay attention to it. “Yes, she is. She’s got... a bum.”

The detective snorted and giggled. “Yes, she does! Excellent work, John, she’s got a bum – she _does_ though. Nice one.”

“You like ladies’ bums?”

“Eh.” Sherlock shook his head and shrugged. “Wouldn’t know what to do with it. It’s nice, but women are complicated.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know how to treat women. In that... capacity. They confuse me. Easier without the romance and frilliness. Probably not that difficult, but just doesn’t appeal to me. Not worth learning.”

John frowned further and turned back towards Sherlock to focus on him, his hand on his chin. “You don’t like women?”

“They don’t like me.”

He giggled and drank more of his beer. This was nice. He liked this. And Sherlock was a nice drunk. He probably wasn’t even drunk. “You know, if you tried hard enough...”

“See, but that’s the point. I’m not interested in trying hard to be with a person. Either it works or it doesn’t. The only thing you should try hard at is working through problems together. Such as... debt. And it has to be working _together_.” He shook his head. “Why are we discussing this?”

“You said the lady on the telly is pretty. And that she has a nice bum.”

“She is, and she does.” He shrugged. “It means nothing. A lot of people are attractive.”

John hummed in agreement and glanced toward the telly again. “So you think about that? Being with people?”

“It’s crossed my mind. I’m not looking.”

“No, of course not. That just makes you... makes you lower standards.”

“People tolerate a lot more from romantic partners. Either it’s the sex or fear of dying alone. Favour the latter – not everyone is as shallow as they appear.” Sherlock drank some more and smiled. While the rum had an aftertaste in the beginning, it tasted like vanilla Coke. Now it went down like water.

“Never thought about you being interested in people before.”

He shrugged in a half-hearted movement. “I’m comfortable with myself and I have no fear in the concept of living my elder years in solitariness. Mycroft does it out of fear of being used. Silly.”

John smiled and sighed a little to himself. “That makes sense. Should love yourself before you try to love others.”

He made a face. “I agree with the sentiment, but that sounds like a self-help novel.”

“They’ve got some of it down,” he admitted. “Sounds like shite most of the time.” The new character turned around on the screen and he tilted his head some in admiration. “So did he have anyone?”

“Who ‘he’?”

“Your brother.”

“Oh, Alex.” He contemplated it for a few moments. “Sometimes. Never anything long-lasting. Unfortunately. He deserved better.” Sherlock looked down at his drink and watched it as he stirred the straw around. “Deserved someone there every night, someone that’d stand up for him if people tried to talk bad about him. Deserved a lot more years.” He sighed softly. “Pointless now.”

John pouted and touched his cheek as he felt his eyes watering a little. “That’s sad,” he mumbled. “Good to know these things about you. That you care.”

“Of course I care.”

“Yeah, well, I know that now. Went a long time without knowing. I don’t blame you, though. Must be... hard. You’re not naive. But you know I care about you, right? That I want those things for you.”

Sherlock laughed softly and nodded. “Yes, I know. You’re not very quiet.”

“What does that mean?”

“People talk in actions.” He frowned for a moment before he set his drink on the side table. “Need to pee, be right back.” Sherlock left the room swiftly, and John giggled after him.

He rarely talked like this. It must have been the alcohol. But he didn’t even know if this was a buzz or genuine drunkenness. John couldn’t muster the energy to try and find out. He looked at his chair with some sort of longing and sighed. When would this end? When he got married? Would he leave him behind? He didn’t want to. Sherlock was too good. He was subtle and quiet, and often annoyed, but he was good. He didn’t want to hurt him, not at all. He wondered if it would – if the man would take it quietly. He hoped not.

He heard the toilet and the faucet running, and then the door opening. Sherlock seemed a little more lively as he rushed back to his chair. He finished off his drink and frowned for a long moment. “What were we talking about?”

John furrowed his brow, but he came up with nothing. “No idea. Something about...caring.”

“Mm.” Sherlock tucked his legs underneath himself and ran a hand through his hair. “I have soft hair,” he commented with a hum, “You should feel this. Come here.”

He laughed and set his beer down on the little table before he slipped out of his chair. He walked over carefully, touching the table just for balance if he needed it. Without thought for hesitation, he stuck out his hand and started threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

God, it was soft. That didn’t make sense, it was curly, why was it soft?

He lingered for longer than he should have, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. His head fell forward and his eyes closed, surrendering. It was nice. He didn’t do this often – at all, he corrected himself. He never touched his hair.

The moment was profound to him, and he felt like crying. It was the beer, no doubt. There was nothing sad about it. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock made an answering noise, and didn’t elaborate.

“I like you.”

“I know, you said.”

“No, I...” John sighed and moved to sit on the arm of his chair, still just running his hand through his locks. God... “I really like you. I want you to be happy, and cared for.” He felt stupid as a tear rolled down his cheek. “Okay?”

Sherlock nodded, but his head was still down. “I know.”

Maybe. “And I want all those things you wanted for Alex,” he went on to say. “I want you to have someone you can trust and be yourself with, and someone that’ll stand up for you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

John smiled and leaned in to kiss his hair. It smelled so nice, so clean, and it was soft and felt nice against his nose. No arguments occurred to him, and Sherlock didn’t protest – it was like he didn’t notice. But he must have.

Sherlock sighed softly. Everything felt slow and content. His mind didn’t register anything as wrong or odd, and he didn’t know what to attribute that to. He looked up at John and a small smile curled at his lips. He was nice, and lovely. “We should talk more tomorrow,” he said with a little huff of breath. “I’m tired.”

He nodded and smiled again before he ruffled his hair. “That sounds good, Sherlock. Sleep... sounds _really_ good,” John mumbled as he slipped off the arm of his chair to stand on his feet. “I’ll see you in the morning. Okay?”

“Okay.” He smiled again as John left the room to go upstairs to his room. He turned off the telly and considered going to his room, but this chair was so comfy. Much more comfy than the idea of having to get up from it and walk all the way to his room.


	9. Admission

Sherlock woke up in the early morning. He didn’t know what spurred him from buzzed sleep, but it was permanent. He wriggled in his chair until he was lying across it with his head on the leather arm, staring up at the ceiling. He contemplated the memories from the night before, and he knew that they were real, but they seemed far away. He closed his eyes and began running his hand through his hair, recalling how it felt when it was John’s fingers.

He cried when he was telling him that he wanted good things for him. Sherlock remembered that, remembered looking up at him and seeing the tears streaking along his skin, but he didn’t say anything. What he was saying was more important at the time. He didn’t know why John cried, only imagined that it was internal upset about something. People cried over little else.

John’s head would be hurting when he woke up. Perhaps he could do something about that as thanks for the night previous. He didn’t exactly know why he felt the need to thank him, but he would nevertheless.

Sherlock got up from his chair and frowned at the beer bottles on the edge of the coffee table. He collected them and brought them to the kitchen, setting them in the bin in the corner. They could be used for an experiment later or Mrs. Hudson would recycle them – whichever came first. He moved slowly around the kitchen and poured a glass of water, then added a tablet of Alka-Seltzer to it. He also made toast.

These items were plated and carried up to John’s bedroom. The door was ajar and he was able to nudge it open with his hip before walking in and setting everything down on the nightstand. Sherlock stood beside John’s sleeping figure with a frown, evaluating the room. It was tidy to military standards, a fact that didn’t surprise him. Even the bed had the sheets folded and tucked properly. The only thing in disorder was the room’s owner, asleep on top of all the sheets and still fully-dressed in the clothes he put on the morning before. Sherlock smiled to himself; the man looked peaceful.

He sat on the side of his bed with apprehension and worried his lower lip. Sleeping people were a fear of his, though very slight. He never knew what would be waiting for him when the person was finally conscious. Some people turned to complete monsters.

“John?” he called in a whisper, and knew that it wasn’t enough to wake him up. “John.” Sherlock reached out to hold his forearm and shake the doctor gently.

The man’s eyes opened and his brow furrowed. John tried to look up, but his eyes willed themselves shut again and he didn’t dare open them. The light was annoying and he couldn’t bear it right now. Perhaps in a few minutes. “Sherlock?” he asked, in the hopes that someone hadn’t snuck into the flat. He wasn’t awake enough to know that a random burglar wouldn’t know his name.

“Does your head hurt?” The voice was definitely Sherlock’s. He wondered if it was so low because of his cigarette habit or if it was natural. He really hoped it was natural; he didn’t want to thank cigarettes.

John nodded a little and groaned, clasping a hand over his eyes. “A little,” he mumbled, then turned towards him so he wouldn’t be facing the window. “Can you pull the curtains?”

“Yes.” Sherlock moved from his bedside and around the bed to get to the window. He pulled the curtains shut quickly and looked back to John, who seemed to be doing well enough to open his eyes and sit up. “I made you toast and something for your head.”

“Mm. You’re not usually so helpful...” He rubbed at his eyes before he reached over for the fizzing water and drank. It inspired a gag or two, but he got it all down and set it on the nightstand again. John sighed and hung his head forward some, squinting. He remembered everything, but couldn’t make sense of it.

Shit. They’d said they would talk. There was a sudden instinct to hide in the bathtub and not discuss anything with Sherlock, but given how he was helping... Maybe he didn’t have to worry. Maybe he didn’t even remember. John thought about this as he munched on his toast, which no doubt got crumbs in the bed.

Sherlock continued standing in the corner of the room, feeling out of place and useless. He sat on the edge of the bed and hoped that would help, but it didn’t. “I wanted to thank you,” he said, frowning as he did it. “Though... I couldn’t explain why if I tried my hardest.”

He smiled around a bite of toast and fought to finish chewing and swallow it. “I don’t think I’ve heard that very often, coming from you. What exactly am I being thanked for?”

He opened his mouth, and he swore he was going to say something, but all of the responses were stupid. “Caring”, “petting my head”, “drinking”. Nothing that should be thanked, he didn’t think. He froze and looked down at his lap. “I suppose... for last night. It was good.” His voice was stilted, unsure, and awkward – all things he hated. There was no fighting it.

John took in a little breath and bit his cheek. He didn’t know what to say. “Listen, Sherlock, I never intended to do that.”

“I invited you.”

“That’s right. But I didn’t mean to say anything else. Please don’t try to force yourself to-“

Sherlock laughed. It was more of a giggle, actually, and the difference did nothing to help save his ego.

He pursed his lips and looked away, rubbing his thumb at his brow. “I just mean you don’t have to say anything. I meant – I want you to be happy, and whether you have to be with someone to achieve that, that’s fine. I’d like if you had someone that... _understood_ you, because I’m just starting to realise how much of a goddamn enigma you really are, and that must be frustrating. I think it is. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that they have to be...” He huffed. “Just tell me to shut up already, I know I must be annoying the hell-“

“Shut up.” It wasn’t rude, or condescending. In fact, there was no anger in it at all. The man was smiling, wider than he’d ever seen.

He got up and walked around the bed to sit next to him again, then his gaze fell on the nightstand as he thought. He didn’t know how to approach these things. But just like any other new thing, he ignored his apprehension and jumped in. Sherlock licked his lower lip and said, “You _are_ annoying. In fact, you’re one of the most annoying human beings I’ve ever met. You’re annoying when you show that you care, you’re annoying when you doubt yourself, and you’re annoying when you say that you don’t know me. Perhaps you don’t know everything, but neither does anyone else. Mycroft thinks he does because he’s been there for the whole of it, but he’s glued to his perspective. He thinks that I’m disappointing because I’m not exactly like him, but I can no longer look up to him – he thinks that living alone without letting anyone get the opportunity to abuse or take advantage of him is _grand._ Maybe it is, but I can’t repeat sermons on sentiment all my life to reassure myself that I’m making the right choice. If I have to constantly convince myself... then obviously, there’s something consistent inside my head that doubts. Yes, people use and abuse, they take advantage and they slip up, and they are selfish, but that is one of the most extraordinary things about them – they can make it worth it, and they can have those faults in specific ways that make you grateful.”

He smiled again and blew out a tiny breath. “If you’d annoy me by caring, being humble, or wanting to be important, than I think I can live with that. I will gladly take _your_ tiny, idiotic problems over that of a selfish twat that doesn’t bother to tell me that they’d like me to give them a hug every now and then.”

John stared at him for a while, his words running through his head on repeat as he tried to figure out the exact meaning behind them, what goal he was running towards. Finally he just had to ask, “What do you want me to be?” Immediately he felt stupid, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer if it wasn’t the one he wanted.

Sherlock chuckled. He was so careful to be compliant, not at all what he was usually like. But he understood it here. “I’ll be candid; I’d like...” And here was where he faltered. He didn’t know how to describe it. “All those frilly, romantic things that they do – dating, hugging, kissing. For starters,” he added stiffly, in attempt not to mention the obvious “other thing” out loud before there was even a possibility.

John grinned at him and the little tense ball of stress in his stomach disappeared. Thank God. He would’ve been able to live with it but it would have been awkward, not to mention painful for a while. “Frilly and romantic?” he asked, sitting up a little more. “Like what?”

“I already said.”

“But what about them is ‘frilly’?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, at a loss for an explanation. “They simply are. Are you going to interrogate me?”

He shook his head. “No, I just like that you try to be verbally distant from sentiment even when you’re talking about things you want.”

“Habit,” he said, shrugging slightly. Those things made him felt ridiculous and stupid, but he would get used to it, he was sure. “It makes it easier.”

“Easier to mention that Sherlock Holmes likes a good snog just like anyone else?”

“I... do not like you,” he muttered, his ears going pink as he looked away. John was just insufferable. He couldn’t believe he had the nerve to tease him about this when _he_ couldn’t even say what he wanted out loud.

John chuckled and bit his cheek before he reached out to brush Sherlock’s hair away from his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m glad that you want those things, believe me – all the easier for me to say I want them too. And I do.”

“Good,” Sherlock said with a slight pout. “I was about to say something callous and rude, now I don’t have to suffer you being insulted and deal with how frustrating and awkward it is to apologise.” He looked over at him and sighed softly. “I look forward to being frilly and romantic with you.”

“Me too,” he admitted, beaming at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end for Sherlock and John in this sub-universe, just FYI.


End file.
